Vanilla
by phiewdh
Summary: When you're in love, you grow. Not just mentally, but also sexually. If you're given the time and patience.
1. Watching

_**Night before the short program in China.**_

* * *

Moments come and go. Pass by so easily, with or without a conscious realisation. Some are sweet, like the caress of the one you love. Some are heated, like the argument between close friends. Some are frightening, like the understanding of what you have is about to go. And then, there are those moments you aren't really sure of. The ones you would like to explore. Relive. Dissicate, turn inside out and ultimately, understand.

That's how it is for him now, sitting next to a sprawled out man. Barely clothed. Besotted. Breathing heavily through slightly parted lips. He hasn't seen him like this before. He doesn't know what to do. If he should stay, if he should go. If he should stay silent. If he should speak. All of this is new, and he doesn't cope well with the new. He seeks comfort in the mundane, in routines that offer no surprises. Situations that mirror him, who he is and how he regards himself to be.

But with him, it's exactly the opposite. He's being challenged. Faced with the new, constantly. Without mercy, without the time to prepare. He's making him nervous, since every little thing about him is new to him. Unknown and daunting. But at the same time, he's familiar and mesmerising.

He has been watching him. For years, he's been the silent observer. The spectator from afar. Dreaming of bigger things, wanting lesser things, needing but one thing. And now, he doesn't know what to do. The one thing being nothing more than an arm's length away, but could just as well be as unattainable as the moon. Yes, he's like the moon. An apparition of silver and blue, as grand and as revered. And not for him. Although, he always have been reaching for him and his glow.

Moments ago, he carried the moon. Brought him to where he now was, safe and sound. Made sure that he was to appear on his celestial trajectory yet again, bathe him with his blinding presence once more. But now, the moon was shrouded in clouds, not beaming as forcefully as he normally does. But still offering enough light to make him see a path. One he doesn't dare to travel.

He's uncomfortable where he is, sitting next to him. Feeling the heat of a sun instead of the cool of a moon. He wants to seek shelter, ward himself from this novelty. Make sure that nothing will happen, because it would be unbearable. And breathtaking.

He hears his name, low and barely audible. To him, it sounds loud. Booming, like his ears are hypersensitive. Like they're tuned in to hear even the smallest of frequencies that originates from the inside of him.

One look to his side, to where he rests. With eyes closed, an open shirt, underwear that seems too constricting and nothing else. Absolutely nothing else than smooth skin made for touching, silver hair made for gripping and muscles made for tearing into. He doesn't want to look. He's done it before, many times under the time they've spent together and he knows what happens when he does. It's always the same, an endless and ruthless loop. The light becomes too blinding, making him lose his sense of direction. Making him lose his way and threatens to lead him off into lands uncharted. Situations unknown, where he's not his own master.

"Yuuri…?" His voice is louder now, lavishly rewarding. Like every time he takes his name in his mouth and gives it back. It's a just reward, the way his tongue constructs the last syllable. The way his lips move to make it sound in that very special way.

His voice is still muddled by external additions, but clearer than before. He's not entirely lucid, but he's getting close. It makes the observer worried. Wondering if there's more to come. If there's an end approaching.

"Yes." He answers him with hesitation. The tone isn't fitting, he doesn't want to seem uncertain. It's a weakness as far as he's concerned. Although he knows that he is. Being next to him, he can't be sure of anything. Even though he tries. Even though he struggles. Even though he desperately wants it to be different.

He doesn't say anything else. He opens his eyes instead, finding his without even a second of hesitation. They remain like that. Not saying anything, but still conducting a complicated conversation. When blue meets brown, that is what happens. Words are spoken without a sound, feelings are conveyed without a single move. There's just the same disabling electricity there that never gets an outlet. The same electricity that keeps on accumulating, making every single interaction more and more volatile. The same electricity that stands for something else, something they have never touched. Alone or together.

He's being caught by him, but that gaze that commands and begs, saunders and heals. It's doing all of that, asking all those questions. He can't make himself look away, he can't make himself answer everything that is unspoken but asked nonetheless.

His hand ends up on his. Matter-of-factly. It lingers there, being nothing more than everything. Suddenly, there's more pressure. The hand that sends all those little sparks through him with the slightest touch on any other day, shocks him now. But he endures, being conflicted. The pressure is now a hold and the lingering sensation evolves into a tug. A command to get closer. A plea to do just the same.

As he leans in, following where his hand is being taken, compliant and unknowing, his mind goes blank. Like it's holding its breath in the same way his body does. His eyes scramble, alternating between blue, narrow eyes, his hand being pulled farther away and a stomach that rises and falls in an accelerated way.

He feels his shoulder opposing to the treatment, acting as a brake. The movement stops, blue eyes blink once as they lock on, finding his with an uncanny precision. He leans in even more, goes from sitting to standing on his knees, having one hand pressed into the mattress for support. Offering himself to follow his lead.

With a smile, the moon guides him anew.

The are reflections of each other. With lips swollen of anticipation, parted to breathe. With a becoming colour on their cheeks, telling each other more than words could ever do. With hearts beating hard and fast, stuck in a rhythm that their bodies would like to follow.

As his fingers are guided to touch him, the naked chest covered in the tiniest of bumps, he becomes trivial.

"Are you cold?"

"No," he answers with a smile.

It looks like it, though. Like the million tiny elevations are speaking a language of their own.

He's not guided anymore. His hand has gotten the trust to continue on its own. To explore. He's a bad traveller, though. He ends up counting all the little irregularities, and nothing else. Tracing them, over and over. Not daring to venture on.

As immobile as his hand is, so are his eyes. They don't stray. From the corner of his eye, he can see more. Everything he's too afraid to acknowledge. It's not just his skin that stands on end. He doesn't have to look to realise that, but he secretly wishes he could.

"Go on." The voice is warm now. Full with a thickness he understands the origin of. But he can't do what he tells him to.

When he takes hold of his wrist, he doesn't fight it. He tries to swallow when his hand is taken further down, but he can't make the reflex happen. It feels like he's drowning, as he gasps for air.

His stomach is taut, the muscles tense underneath his skin. The only thing he registers as the grip around his wrist eases up a little. He closes his eyes as his fingers stay rigid, not daring to do what his mind wants them to do.

When he suddenly feels the edge of fabric, he opens his eyes. Desperately seeking comfort, not knowing where to find it. He tries to get it from him, but the smile and the blue, narrow eyes aren't on his side. They want something else, something he starts to quiver just thinking about. He retracts his hand, the grip is easy to escape being barely closed around his wrist.

He's burning up now, his cheeks are scorching and his body sweltering. He covers his mouth with his retracted hand, trying to keep the air in his lungs to stay there, but he feels it though his fingers. Burning with every exhale.

"No?" There isn't any disappointment in his voice. It sounds calm. Amused. Slightly teasing. Like he's being told that he just lost a bet he was too bold to agree to.

He meets his eyes briefly, but can't say anything. He's too wrapped up in the realisation of what was about to happen. How close he was to finding himself in a situation, a new one at that, without being there mentally. Without having the opportunity to prepare.

As he exhales, feeling his breath being more like a hot summer wind as it passes through his fingers once more, the surprise of hearing a chuckle makes him forget his embarrassment. He becomes self-aware instead, wondering what it'll be like tomorrow when they meet. If this moment will prove to be a problem or an… opportunity. If he's doing wrong, making right decisions.

"Can I…?"

He doesn't understand the question. Not right away. But when he does, that hand in front of his face grow limp as it falls into his lap. His first instinct is to make some distance between them. He feels his arms and legs tense up, prepared to either stand or move away, but he is met by a reassuring smile and a voice that goes with it.

"You don't have to move away. I'd prefer if you didn't."

He can only look at him in bewilderment as his hand is separated from himself by a thin piece of fabric. And how he's continuously having his fingers illustrate that fact. It becomes impossible to look away, even though the slight movements are the same and not intrusive. Even though he's not actually witnessing anything. But he realises, in a place deep inside, that he would say yes to something more. If he could.

It must be either a divine intervention or telepathy when he poses the question. Casually, after pulling his silver hair back from his face.

"I'd like to..." he says as he's got one hand flush against his own thigh, halfway under the black textile.

He surprises himself when he nods. When he actually says the words he never thought he'd ever say to him in a context like this. "Yes. Please."

And so he does. He gets up on his knees with ease, not losing the contact with his dark eyes for even a second as he caresses off his underwear, halfway down his thighs, before he stops. He laughs when he notices the brown eyes looking away, because they're not looking anywhere else than down, and quickly up again.

"It's okay. You can look. I'd love if you did that." He puts one hand on his shoulder to make him sit properly and not on his knees.

He still doesn't know where to look. His eyes automatically travel downwards if he doesn't concentrate. Looking into his eyes feels intrusive. Looking away isn't an option. He doesn't know what to think, nor say, when he suddenly doesn't have to worry about his autonomy, feeling his hand on the back of his head. Fingers tangled in his hair. Demanding eye contact but not forcing it.

It's like watching music. Feeling words. Incredibly hard to comprehend, but the most captivating thing he's ever taken part of. He's with him, invited to join him in a display of ultimate trust and intimacy. A part of him wants to touch him, maybe hold on to the hand he has in his hair, but that part of him is too small. Too insignificant to voice its opinion. So he remains being passive sitting down, breathing hard and looking into blue eyes that keep welcoming him back.

He uses a rhythm when he's touching himself. It's slow at first, like a classical piece of music that chases after a build. When it's there, the increase in volume, it sustains. Keeps on going, adding a new instrument at a time. For him, it's closing his fist in his hair. It's letting his hair go and trailing a thumb over his lower lip instead. It's holding on to the side of his neck.

And then, there's the crescendo. When it becomes more focused, intent of making it to the end. Not holding back at all. For him, it's eye contact. The smallest reaction he can give him, but the one that takes him there. When he's the one to close his eyes, tilt his head back and let a sigh out. A sigh that evokes so much in him, as the silent observer.

A sigh that is his name.


	2. Touching

That night, he sleeps alone.

Walking back to his room, he starts to make up excuses. Why it happened. Why he stayed. Why he looked. Why he felt the way he did when he sighed his name as he fell. All of the excuses boil down to one thing, and one thing only.

Victor was drunk.

The realisation becomes a blow, one that makes him fold over. One that makes him claw at the wall for support in order to stand. Of course it's like that. It could never be any different. He is like the moon, his light spreading everywhere and bathes anyone that comes across him. He's not exclusive, not made for him.

That night, he sleeps alone. But in his thoughts, he's not. He feels him close, flush against his back. Feels the warmth of him seep into him, taking over him. That's the only reason he reaches for himself. Striving to make the same music as he did, when he was watching.

It's easier now, imagining him. Pretending that he's the one doing this. Moving with a rhythm, with a purpose. That he's the one bringing him higher, higher. Higher, before he's going to fall. As he feels the tension in his belly, knowing that he's close, closer than ever, he sees him. How his head is leaning back, baring a glistening throat. How the silver hair moves out of his eyes. How those fine lashes shadow the pools of blue that have demanded his attention. How his fingers look wet with the result of his efforts.

As he trembles, feeling a million muscles responding to what he sees before his inner eye, he doesn't sigh. He calls. And not his own name.

* * *

The morning after is a disappointment. One that doesn't come as a surprise, but still hurts nonetheless. They don't speak about what happened. They don't even touch the subject, making the reasons to why it even happened a hurtful truth. Instead, they talk about skating. Because that's the reason why they're there. That's the reason for everything. The reason for last night too. As he understands that, he feels a calm inside. Holding on to it, making it his truth.

It starts as he warms up. The thoughts flap around at first before they start to settle. And when they do one by one, he understands what he wants. He wants him. Like nothing else. Also, he wants that recognition. That he's the one who has taken him. Claimed him, without anyone else getting the chance to bask in his light anymore. He wants the hate, the leers, the envy. And he's going to make it happen. If skating can make heated dreams like yesterday come true, there's nothing holding him back.

They start to converse, barely using words. The energy between them is what does the talking. He senses this when he feels his hand on top of his own, the few sentences he utters merely acting as amplifiers.

"The time to seduce me by thinking of katsudon and women during your skate is over." His blue eyes are calm, his voice reassuring. "You can fight with your own personal charm."

It becomes hard for him to think. To breathe. His whole body reacts to him. It feels like he's talking about something else and not skating.

"You can envision it just fine, can't you?"

 _Yesterday._ He's talking about yesterday. It all falls into place for him. That exact moment in time is something he'll remember forever. When it became his truth. No, their truth. The slight touch of his finger on top of the back of his hand only enforces his words.

He knows that he's ready now. He can envision it just fine because it has already happened. He won him over. In an effort to make him understand that he knows, he locks eyes with him. Entwines his fingers with his, almost pulling him closer. And he, in the spur of the moment, puts his forehead against his, relishing the sensation. Relishing the moment. Doing the things he didn't dare, the night before.

"Don't ever take your eyes off me." _Exactly like yesterday._

* * *

As he hears his name being called, he takes off, feeling a heat in the pit of his stomach. It was spreading. Taking over. Ravaging him like a wildfire that noone could ever control. Oh, he _was_ going to show him. He could envision it _just fine_.

As soon as the music starts, he licks his lips. Intent on capturing him, ensnaring him. Enticing him. He wanted to make him see that he understood. That he knew where they were with each other. That they spoke the same language. If that would prove unsuccessful, the look he would give him would render him defenseless. This was a new first for him. Making acquaintance with love. Sexual love.

 _They can laugh at me all they want._

He felt as if he was aflame, moving to the music. Fueled by everything that had happened between them and everything he selfishly sought in the future. What others thought ceased to matter as soon as he had stepped out on the ice. Having his blue eyes on him.

 _They can think it's not like me._

But it was. Of everything, every little part, that came together and made him who he was, this new feeling, realisation was… everything. _It was him_. This previously unknown side, the one he'd been dressing up as, trying to find within was… Integrated. He felt it now. Fully. Wholeheartedly.

 _But everyone wants to know the new me, don't they?_

Not that he cared. He only needed the validation from one single person. And he was looking. Exactly like he'd been doing the night before.

A triple axel. A quad salchow. Yes, it all came through. His words, his deepest feelings and intentions, out there for the world to see.

 _I'm the only one who can satisfy Victor._

He knew this. He had proof. Flashes of his bared throat, his name being sighed through parted lips appeared before him.

 _I'm the only one in the whole world who knows Victor's love._

A lunge. Extended to his maximum capacity. He wanted to be sprawled out like that, he wanted to make sure that their bodies would meet.

 _I'll prove that now._

Quad toe, triple toe. Perfect. If there was any doubt at all. But he was sure. He had delivered it all to him, with the use of his body. Hoping that he would make it true somehow, at some point off the ice.

He threw her away, the imaginary woman. He didn't need her and her influence anymore. He was ready. He was ready for him.

"Yuuri, did it feel that great?" The first words he speaks since they parted. Sitting together in the Kiss and Cry.

"Well," he says with his heart beating hard inside, not sure if it's because of his exertion or the fact that he's so close to him again, "I was hoping everyone else felt great watching me." But he knows inside that all that matters is what _he_ thinks, what _he_ feels watching him.

"Yuuri!" He was around him, speaking into his ear. A tone of… admiration. Of something… more, perhaps? "Of course they'd feel great watching a performance like that." His breath comes out in quick huffs into his ear. A telltale sign of excitement.

* * *

They eat, they part, they sleep. Alone. That night, nothing happens. Making him doubt himself again. Thoughts of his efforts not being worth it, enter his head. Plagues him the entire night. He realises he longs for his touch, having his hand on the back of his head. Demanding him to look.

It suddenly feels like it must have been a dream. The moment they shared. That they weren't speaking a language they could communicate freely in. If it should prove that it wasn't a dream, that they did understand each other, it's obvious it didn't mean as much to the moon as it did to him. He doesn't sleep much once that thought roots itself.

That morning, when he feels like he's at his weakest, being tired and unsettled by the thoughts that rode him all night, he gets a small reward. One that keeps his hopes up. Of them possibly being able to continue what they might have started.

He's observant, that coach of his. Asking him if he's slept. He answers truthfully. Instead of attending the morning practise under his watchful eyes, he gets ushered back to the hotel with an arm around his shoulders.

His heart races when they enter his room. When he's told to undress. Again, he becomes unable. Unable to feel entirely relaxed. Unable to do what's asked of him. Unable to look at him, as he stands a few paces away, pulling his fingers through his hair.

"You need to sleep." His voice isn't filled with that thickness from before. That muddled desire that caught him off guard. It's lighter. More concerned. That makes it easier.

He starts unzipping his jacket, not giving him as much as a glance. Because it's easier. More safe. He drapes it over the back of a chair. He turns around as he takes his shirt off. The feeling of his eyes being on his back in this way is complicating things. It makes him feel vulnerable. Unsure. The feelings he had on the ice the day before aren't even within reach, as he hesitantly turns around.

He doesn't say anything, doesn't dare to meet the blue eyes watching him. As he sits down on the bed to remove his sneakers, he joins him. Suddenly on his knees. Redirecting his hands away from himself.

"Let me," he breathes as he trails a hand along his calf, removing the shoe as his hand reaches his foot. Putting a couple of fingers down the sock to remove it with hands that feel hot as he touches his ankle. He repeats the procedure with the other foot, daring to hold it in his hands for a while after he's unveiled it. He puts it back on the floor eventually, and stands up in a smooth move.

He tries to meet him, see what's moving behind those blue eyes. He gets the briefest look that makes his stomach clench. It's a look that reminds him of before, a look of appreciation and awe. He's not sure what brought it on, but it makes him feel empowered. Redeemed, in a way.

He removes his sweatpants while sitting down, trying to act bold and unaffected as he does. He isn't looking at him now, though. The silver hair shadows his face as he seems lost in thought. When he crawls into bed, he returns to the room. Being more present.

"Nap until the evening's event starts," he says as he covers him with the duvet, patting him on his hip. He reclines next to him. "It'll be fine," he continues, being propped up on one elbow, "I always slept in until the last minute of competitions, too."

As he puts himself on top of him, with his head against his chest and his light hair tickling his chin, his heart picks up a speed that frightens him. They're only being separated by the duvet and the feeling of his weight pinning him down into the mattress makes him panic. Makes him trivial again, as he ask if he's set an alarm. He wants it to be so much more, but he is hobbled by uncertainty and fear.

He falls asleep eventually, if only for a little while. When he wakes up, it stings when he realises that he's alone.

* * *

He gives it his all. Intent of making one last effort. He really wants him to understand, to make him see what he feels about him. That is why he gambles, as he prepares his last jump. Strange how you can have so many thoughts pass through your conscious mind in less than a second. Moments ago, he had been crying. Frustrated by the fact that he'd hurt him, used clumsy words in the same way he'd been clumsily inviting him to that almost solemn moment two nights ago.

He knows that there will always be a risk of him leaving. No one fetters a whimsical soul, one that never had the reason to wait for others. One can only hope to keep its interest and let go if the time comes. He hopes that he's got it in him, to constantly surprise him in order to make him stay.

When he does the quad flip, he stumbles. It's over-rotated, but he has proved his point. That he will do whatever he can in order to keep him. By his side, interested, surprised and in love. He reaches out to him as the music fades.

Little does he know that surprises are best reciprocated. And why should he know, he's never had the opportunity or felt the need to give himself away before. As he calls out to him, verbally seeking his recognition, he's not sure where he is. In what state of mind. But as he feels himself falling backwards, the back of his head cradled by both of his hands as he hits the ice, the pain isn't what leaves him breathless. It's the soft meeting of their lips, the image of his blue eyes slowly closing and the taste of him that makes his heart stop. The only way he knew how to surprise him.

* * *

That night, they're not sleeping alone. They retire early, leaving vague reasons as to why and don't care where they'll end up. It's with restraint that they're standing next to each other in a crowded lift. It's with respect that they don't get close until they're alone. It's with ravaging hands they make it official.

It's a mutual endeavour this time, in everything they do. Their fingers trying to set the other free, fumbling even though they take it slow. Trying not to delay, although buttons, layers of fabric and the need to help the other does just that. They don't say much. When they do, it's mostly through laughs and soft interjections.

As they lie down in a bed too narrow for the both of them, it's an array of little things that make them heated, when they're all mouths, hands and exhilaration. Clambering to each other for the first time, hoping never to come down. The novelty fades, eventually. And when it does, it becomes serious instead. More focused and intense.

He shies away, repeatedly removes eager hands from places he never thought of him ever touching. Except for when he's alone, thinking of him. He's placing them where it feels safe instead.

"I'm sorry, I just…" He's intrusive, hot and hard, but he understands. Tries to pace himself as his hands once again gets removed and placed somewhere else. Some strands of silver is stuck to the side of his face as he gasps into his mouth.

"I just… not yet, I…" He wants to reward him for listening, for not pushing too much although his eagerness is making it difficult for him. He would like to follow his lead, but it's too soon. He doesn't know how to, can't feel really at ease.

"Yuuri, can't I? Just let me," he exhales, fingers deep into his back. Slowly acting wayward again.

He tries to allow him but as his hands go low, underneath what's left of his clothes, he stops him again. "Show me. Like you wanted to before." He places his hand underneath his as he swallows, asking him to guide him.

It suddenly becomes quiet. Still. Blue eyes hooked on brown, reading each other. Making sense of the words that were spoken.

"You… you want to?" It's a mix of expressions that acts out. His body shows lust, his eyes disbelief and his mouth a hunger.

"Yes. Yes! Show me how."

Before he gets the chance to finish the sentence, he sits up with his back against the headboard. He follows his lead, gaining strength by being messy against his mouth, having his hands in his hair as he is pushing it back from his face. When he feels ready, he puts his hand back underneath his. Breathing hard against his chest.

He's not as slow and deliberate as before. He's not guiding, he's imploring. He's heavy in his hand as he springs free, as he makes him take hold of him. Grip him. Tighter. The feeling of having his hand close his own makes him heady. And again, he's not sure where to look. As he glances up at him, he's got his eyes fixed on their hands, which is what he decides to do too.

His movements differ from his own. He's not tentative, he knows what he likes and he's not hesitant about letting him know. As he picks up pace, his other hand finds his chin and tilts it upwards.

"Come, come here." There's that thickness he heard before. The one he attributed to other things and not him.

His tongue is intrusive, but he likes it. It makes him moan into his mouth, which in turn makes him hum, a low sound from deep down in his throat.

"I'm gonna let… just… continue," he gasps between their oral impacts as he lets his hand go. Trusting him to bring him where he wants to be, together with him. The hand that has been guiding him finds the back of his head, the other one is still cupping his jaw as he feeds off of him, seemingly insatiable.

He finds it hard to concentrate. Of meeting him up top and take care of him down below. When he loses momentum on either end, he's met with smiles disrupted by heavy breaths and an incredible patience. He would like to do more, but he's not sure how it would be welcomed, so he remains close against him. Hearing his heart rate pick up and slow down depending on how forceful he is. Feeling his lips getting more plump as every kiss starts to linger.

"Hurry, you're killing me," he sighs into his neck.

He wants him to sigh. He wants it to happen just like before, when he said his name. If only he could make him say his name. It would be the greatest proof that this was real.

He doesn't understand where it comes from, it's totally unplanned and a definite spur of the moment kind of thing, but as he does, he understands that he's got a control over him. "Do you like it, _Victor_?"

When he hears his name being uttered, he moans appreciatively. Shudders slightly, then relaxes. "Again," he demands.

" _Victor_ , do I make you feel good?"

"Yes, yes… again. Again, please, Yuuri…"

He grows bold, intoxicated with the effect he has on him. He feels his cheeks heat up as he stretches his own boundaries, wondering what he can and cannot say. As he decides to say something he never thought he would get the opportunity to do, and especially not to him, he feels himself tapping into the arousal. Feeling that clench in the pit of his stomach.

"I…" He hesitates at first. "I want you. I want you and I want you to come. Can you do that, _Victor_?" He bites his lower lip as his voice dies down. As he tries to bring him closer. He feels him grabbing his hair, he hears his breathing picking up even more before he tenses up. Stops breathing for a couple of seconds before he relaxes.

He doesn't sigh his name this time. It's more of a cry as he rests his head against his shoulder, scorching it with his breaths that are getting slower. With every shivering exhale.


	3. Feeling

They return to Japan. They take it slow. Now that they know where they stand, there's no need to rush. Although the days are filled with skating, with them spending hours and hours together, being at the rink is sacred. It's a place where they work, where the need and the want gets forced into taking other expressions than helping each other relax, chasing warmth and also, longing for an unhindered closeness. Though, it happens that a hand lingers too much, that an arm around a shoulder becomes an embrace that make something quake inside. That a conversation sidetracks and becomes something else entirely. When it happens, they smile. Creates the little distance they need to focus. And then, they continue.

Although they have separate rooms, they seek each other out more often than not. In all honesty, there hasn't been a night when they have been sleeping alone, being separated by a flight of stairs and walls too thin. Not once, since they returned from China. It's something they never want to do again, something that makes them both uneasy. Something that would hinder them in their ongoing curiosity.

There is a silent agreement to their audiences. They don't hide it, walking out of the other's bedroom in the morning. But they don't put it on display either, only seeking each other out when the night has come and the inn becomes still.

There is a silent agreement to their audiences. Depending on where they end up, they adjust accordingly. Victor's room is spacy, previously used as a room for banquets. A lot of meetings have taken place there during the years, their continuous rendez-vous not disrupting that fact. But Victor's room is also wrong, wrong in so many different ways. With walls being thin, doors made for sliding instead of closing to attain privacy, and being on a floor that would make anything except sleeping painfully obvious, all they do there is sleep.

Yuuri's room is the opposite. It's small, with a bed that mirrors its size. Not accommodating for two. Being the only bedroom on its floor, with a door that closes behind them and with walls that keeps everything from getting out and coming in. More often than not, that is where they end up. In a bed too small, placed between walls that keep secrets.

That is what happens this night, too. First, they separate. Feeling both a sting of sadness and excitement. Second, they wait. For it to become still, building anticipation and a longing for what's to come. Third, they meet. With not even a knock or a call to let the other know that he's there, on the other side. They did it before, when all of this was new. They quickly realised that it was unnecessary and began coming in without a second thought. Claiming what they considered to be theirs, without any intentions on holding back.

This is what happens this night too, when Victor comes in.

* * *

He doesn't have to tell him anything. That he's awake. That he's been waiting. He knows that he knows all of that when he silently opens the door, walks through it and closes it behind him with a soft click. That sound has started to mean something, like they've been conditioned to respond to it. He does it instantly. Feels a heat spreading. Feels himself holding his breath so as to not sound greedy although he is, sitting in his bed. Feels how he automatically shifts to welcome him, waiting for him to come close with whatever intentions he's got on his mind.

He loves his patience. That, and his way of making him feel like he's someone, someone worthy of _him_ is what he feeds off. Every day. Every night. Every little moment they spend together. He's constantly reminded of this. With every touch, every intoxicating wetness against his mouth, with every soft vowel being sighed against him.

He loves his patience, and how it sometimes falters. But only when they're together in situations like this. When he becomes too fiery, too hungry and too lost in the moment. He loves it, because he can get reeled in. Calm himself for a while, only to resume. His patience is a blessing, but also a curse. It makes him unsure, uncertain of how long he'll accept him taking it slow. Because he is, when he meets him, every night being clothed. Because he is, removing his hands from places he's too scared to feel them on. Because he is... still untouched in the way that he has touched him. Countless times by now.

But today's been different. He finds it hard to explain, even to himself, but he realises he's been feeling calm. Not as flustered by the unintentional touches on the ice, not as afraid of the intentional ones off it. If today's been different, there's something that tells him that tonight might act out in the exact same way. If he just lets himself feel.

So, when the door closes, bringing on the anticipation of something he yet doesn't know that much about, he's calm. He sees his contour, blurry and in monochrome. But he brings all of that with him, he always does. The clarity, the colour. He knows that he's wearing the green yukata that all the guests wear at the resort, and he know the sound it makes when it falls to the floor.

As he hears the low, almost indistinct rustle, he knows what follows. The sound of feet confidently taking the few steps needed. The feeling of his weight in that specific corner that makes the mattress shift. The sensation of it becoming cold only to be sweltering a second later as he joins him in the darkness underneath the duvet. And it plays out tonight too, that very sequence. Instantly, everything becomes crisp and saturated.

He's always naked when he joins him. When he interacts with him like this. When he eventually falls asleep. Apart from being clear and in colour, there are a lot of other things that can describe him as he comes to him in the night. He's unfettered, unrestricted, uninhibited. Also, he belongs to him.

He feels his hand on his chest, the heat of his palm radiates through his t-shirt. He's not like him though, not at all. He's fettered, restricted, inhibited. But he wants something else, at least for tonight. As he sits up, starts feeling for the hem of his t-shirt, he gets help instantly. Not with his t-shirt, but with emotional support. His hands are on his back as he gets behind him, he remembers that it's safe for them to be there, following the path of his disappearing shirt. Up, up they travel, until his back is covered by arms and hands. Protecting him against the air of the night.

"Oh?" He does nothing to hide his surprise. His interest. Not with his voice, nor his body, as his arms cover him.

"Victor, I…" He tries to start, explain all that he has been trying to figure out for himself, but ends up short. He feels his arms disappear from his back, and inhales as his chest presses against it instead. His arms travel to his front, and ends up loosely crossed with his hands barely touching his sides.

He can feel his breath on him. In his ear. On his cheek. He can't decide what's warmer against him, his exhales or his chest. He leans back, leans into him with a mumble that speaks volumes. He wants him closer. He realises this and reaches for those hands that are barely touching him. He presses them against himself, his sides. Showing him that it is okay too.

A hand decides to let him go, the other one stays. The one that breaks free ends up in his hair. They're soft, all those silver strands that together create the place his hands always end up in, their favorite resting place. He sifts through it, again and again, feeling his heart pounding faster. He doesn't notice that a hand leaves his side. He notices it when he feels it around his wrist instead, when his arm gets outstretched. Elongated in the same way he does it by himself on the ice.

As he feels his tongue trail from the nape of his neck, over his shoulder and as far as he can possibly reach along his arm without shifting from his position behind him, he wants to see him. Lock eyes with him. And they do, as he nibbles on his shoulder. His eyes almost entirely covered by lashes made of silver. Seeing him being lost, lost in him, does something to his insides as he watches him taking mouthfuls.

"Hm…?" He retracts his arm, puts his hand back in his hair where he found it. The question, or the sound of it rather, lingers in the room. He's still tasting his shoulder, taking bites, rather. Between bites, some actually stinging, he poses the question again. With words, this time. "What's the matter, love?"

It's the first time he hears it. A loving epithet that only strengthens the sensation he battles in the pit of his stomach. The four letter word binds him closer to him, maybe without him even knowing. But he wants him to know what it does to him, what it makes him feel. But it's complicated for him to sort it out. Being the one who has to dress the feelings into words. He secretly wishes it could be the opposite. That he could be the confident one, the one who casually say things like that without stumbling on what's being said. As always when it becomes complicated and when he's feeling flustered, impaired by the conflict of wanting and not daring, he feels a familiar burn. He blinks, blinks and blinks. This is not the time, or… maybe it is. Maybe this is how he dresses his feelings into words. Or at least, how he externalises them.

"Hey…" His voice is warm as he concentrates on what is playing out before him. When he stops tasting him, leaving behind a cool on his shoulder. "Hey, what happened? Just now?"

He can't hold it back, he has to let go of his hand. Let go of his hair. Save them both from the awkwardness he just put them through. He hides behind his hands as his body quivers. Hoping that they can act like the impenetrable fortress he wants them to be. When his defences get tested, they fall. Immediately. It doesn't take much, just a touch, a light tug. And then, he's enveloped, feeling nothing but his calm, reassuring steadiness around him.

They end up being horizontal. Face to face, sharing the little space they have at their disposal. His soothing fingers is brushing away black, unruly strands of hair without ever stopping. Catching his wet, wayward feelings every now and then. With his fingers, but also with his lips. When it becomes calm, he tries again. Tries to understand what brought it on. "I'm sorry," he starts. "What happened? Did I say something wrong?"

He gathers all the courage he can possibly muster before he shakes his head. Before he seeks comfort in his arms. Before he dares to speak. "No. It's just… you said… you said everything right."

He's offered a little laugh in response, one that tells him how unaware he is of the impact his words had on him. But he tightens his embrace, nonetheless, intent on continuing making it right. Not before long, his hands start to wander. Still touching where it's safe. Still making it right. His eyes are asking a thousand questions, seemingly grey in the darkness.

For now, there's just one question he knows the answer to, and he does so by joining him in an oral exchange. They meet, time and time again. Keeping it soft. Keeping it loving. And then, it happens at the same time. When he suddenly adds a little tongue and his hands suddenly skim over places unexplored.

He mewls into his mouth, when his hands are being brazen. The embers were still there, almost burned out. Now flaring. Consuming within seconds. Burning with a magnificent heat. This is what he wants, he realises. This is what he wants to feel when they're close. He starts to reach for him, like all those countless times before. He's brazen too, taken by the moment. His hand gets stopped before it reaches where it wants to go. Before something starts that cannot be revoked.

"Let me," the mumble sounds like, spoken in part by words rolling off his lips but also by those, now grey, eyes. "Let _me_ touch _you_ this time."

His answer becomes a sound that continues, both as he inhales and exhales. It's a sound he has never heard himself utter before. It's a sound he never thought to be in him, one he never thought he could actually produce. But as it comes out, ushered by lungs pressing out air in desperation, he knows it's good. He knows it's right. And he flexes his hips.

He wants him to sit up as he helps him out of his pajama bottoms. Taking charge, demanding him to be passive. Now, it's him who takes his hands away. Patiently, without any frustration. He's too slow, he wants him to act and not delay. But he takes his time, caressing the fabric off of him, with hands and fingers and nails that dig into his thighs.

"I… ngh, plea…se..." Although he tries to implore him to make it quick, he ignores him.

"Good things come to those who wait. Remember that, love." He pulls his legs out of the confinements of the fabric, sets him free. "Always. Remember. That," he mumbles between the kisses he delivers on his feet and thighs as he comes closer. Finally meets him where he is with his eyes, before he gets behind him again. "Lean back for me."

He does, without even a second of hesitation. Feels that warmth against his back that started all this. Resting between his bended knees.

"Here," he hears him whisper from behind as he feels a hand reach down his thigh. He feels the hand around the back of his knee as he adjusts his leg, putting it on the outside of his own, letting it hang into the air. Sprawling him out as makes him recline.

"Oth… the other one too?" He gasps, taken by the image of him being opened up, there on display. There for the taking.

A small loving coo. "Oh, _Yuuri_ … Do it. If you like." He hums appreciatively as he does it by his own accord, putting his leg over his.

His hands begin to skim over his chest, teasing what they can find. Taking their time. He laughs a little when he shudders underneath his hand. "Are you… cold?"

He freezes. Realises that he's mirroring his words. From before, when they stumbled upon the moment where they introduced each other to one another. At least, in this context. The realisation that he remembers almost becomes his undoing. He seeks out his mouth, twists his fingers into his silver hair and boldly invites himself. He feels a hand on his jaw, it escaped his chest as on cue, as he keeps his head in place. Meets him with the same intensity.

Heavy breaths, sweating bodies and hazy eyes tell them that it is time.

As he sits behind him, he spreads his own legs a bit. Opening up his even more in the process. He thanks him, screaming the words of that corporeal blessing in his mind. Externally, he whimpers. Weak due to the crippling need, the yearning that takes over and leaves him with nothing, nothing other than a ferocious headiness.

It's hazy, dissociative almost, when he crosses the line, his fingers skimming underneath the waistband. Almost ending him with a touch alone. But he retracts, plays with his passion a bit before he resumes. Before he unveils him. Before he takes him in his hand.

"M...make me…" He can't speak, his ardor too intense.

"Don't worry." He spreads his legs even more. Wets his mouth by kissing him. Inhales deeply before he speaks. "I'll make you feel."


	4. Tasting

With a heavy heart and an engrossed mind, he started walking. He was worried. Worried about the reason for him coming back alone, adding to the already chaotic swirl of thoughts on the inside. Without him, it became obvious. He forgot, he just couldn't keep the feeling of him inside anymore. Couldn't feel his calm, see his colour, bathe in his glow. He needed him, all that was him to go on. To be himself. The one he had started to realise he actually was.

 _I have a lot I want to tell you, Victor._

But as always… words are difficult. Even though you've thought them through, changing only a syllable, the smallest intonation, even changing something as complicated as a word to make it easier… they falter. They never convey all that actually goes on inside. The rushes. The dizzyness. The shivers. The clenches. The ever spreading heat. The feeling of wanting more, more, more. Accompanied by images even more difficult, no, impossible to explain. Images of more. And ultimately, images of everything.

 _What do I say first?_

He had it planned, almost perfectly thought out. The flight had been long, and his thoughts invasive. They made the words appear, clearly. And, just like that, they vanish. Hearing a bark. Seeing _him._

It becomes a chase. Not a hunt. A chase, with the intention of it culminating after watching, touching, feeling. Their eyes are stuck to each other, there's just no looking away. They pull each other in as they run, with glances alone. Separated by something so trivial as an inch of glass, it might as well be high fences, barbed wire or being worlds apart. They chase each other, wanting to get close. Needing to get close.

He invites him, stands open, welcoming him to where he belongs. He wants time to speed up. He can't think, not one coherent thought, as he pushes through. Like a thoroughbred he runs, throws himself out as soon as the doors open. Wanting to be first. The only winner who can claim him and his embrace. His glow. His colour.

They have watched, now they touch. Colliding into a staggering envelopment that leaves them both breathless. The warmth, it's familiar. The smell, it's divine. The closeness, it's real. The touch, it's everything.

He whispers something, low in his ear. He's been thinking, thinking about what he can do for him from now on. As a coach. He responds, he's been thinking too. All too much, and all those thought-out words, all those sentences making sense boils down. With urgency, he needs to tell him, before that vanishes too.

"Please take care of me until I retire!" With his hands on his shoulders, pushing him away, he feels like a hypocrite saying those words. He wants him closer, he never wants to let go, but he wants to see. He wants to understand what his words will do to him. This desperate plea. And he wants him to respond, to soothe everything threatening to consume him. If just with a look, a touch.

He gets more. He gets everything. A huffing smile, his hand in his. Without hesitation, he tastes his fingers. Leaving a coolness that instantly becomes a burn. One that takes everything away. Every last piece of hesitation, every thought that has ever made him insecure, before he instills hope with his words instead.

"It's almost like a marriage proposal."

As he finds his chase come to an end, being there in his arms with his head against his shoulder, his hope becomes an understanding. That he has it easy with words and that he…

"I wish you'd never retire."

 _...wants him too._

* * *

Together they feel what they've started.

They don't hide it. They put it on display. Something has changed, and that makes them bold. No matter what others might say, they know. They've decided. And it's their truth and theirs alone.

" _In a minute, just… I'll come. Down! Soon._ " He tells this to his mother as he tries to find the words, being stuck to him. Gone are the cultural courtesies, the excuses and the behaviour. He thinks he sees a smile on her lips as he leaves his bags just inside the door, kicking off his shoes. Being stuck to him.

They struggle up the stairs. Struggle with each other. It's for his room they head, where secrets are kept. Secrets that already are out in the open. Secrets best told in a small bed, boxed in by four walls and a door that closes with a click.

As he tries to unbutton his coat, fumbling with every single one of those buttons, his glasses are removed and put on his desk with a soft sound. It doesn't help, makes it even harder.

He comes closer with a laugh, blue eyes engaged. His brown coat slides off his arms, the sound sending shivers down his spine as it crumples on the floor. As he is fighting with his own to do exactly the same.

"Oh, let me," he smiles. "Those shaking hands will be useful in just a moment."

He's not fumbly at all. He's quick, steady and full of resolve. His blue eyes not looking away from his blinking ones, even for a second. He helps him out of the coat with a gentle push, quickly busying his hands with undoing his muffler as the coat gets caught by gravity. Exposing him ever so slowly. Tasting his neck as soon as he catches a glimpse of skin.

"Victor, I need..." He feels out of place, ravaged by a passion he doesn't understand. It's more, so much more than before. With shaking hands, he tries to do good, tries to unbutton and reveal the reason for him feeling like this, but fails miserably.

"Oh, Yuuri… Take off your sweater and I'll do this. As I said, you'll be useful. Just wait."

But he can't focus. Not on himself. His hands are drawn to him, his hair. To that body underneath the beige shirt that kept calling for him and his touch. To the mouth that keeps saying all the right things, and once whispered that it wants to do more.

With every touch, he starves. With every look, he consumes. But he's not sated, not at all content. "Victor," he pants against his chest, still not free of its confinement. "Bed… on the bed. Please, do as I say..."

He gets a tongue in response, one that makes him cry out a little. Only adding to the hunger. He tries to get satisfied, as he digs in. Taking wet and warm mouthfuls of him until he gives, reclines on his bed with his shirt undone but still on. He straddles him, tries to keep up with with the mouth that's threatening to disappear. He can't have that, can't stand the thought of that.

He tries to get full, watching him, touching him, feeling him. He tries, as his hands seeks comfort. He tries, as his mouth acts brave. But he's insatiable. He wants more of him. All of him. Everything he can ever offer.

"Wow…" He shudders as he leaves his mouth, the blue eyes narrow and his full lips parted. "Yuuri, what…" His voice ends in a sigh as his chest meets the same fate as his mouth, mere second ago.

He feels his building excitement as he kisses his chest, as he lets his lips linger and play. As he flicks his tongue over parts he's unfamiliar with. He's done it to him, sometime before, and that is why he dares. He knows what he feels like, he wants to repay that favor. Feeling a hand on the back of his head, holding on to his hair, makes him understand that he's found yet another thing that whets his appetite. He learns with every encounter. About them. About himself. About _him._

"Oh…" That hand begins gripping his hair now, holding on to the fistful of black hair that becomes the only thing that can steel him. "Love, just…"

He feels him reach, for himself no doubt. He doesn't want him to, he wants to be the one that touches him. As he clambers to meet his lips again, he feels victorious when the hand that strayed finds him. He's getting more touches in return, hands trying to feel him, grab him. Constantly looking for weaknesses, ways to get in, on, underneath. Constantly trying to make him lose his way and join his instead.

They break, separate for a moment. Both being flushed. Out of breath. In love. Between shallow and quick inhales, they smile. Laugh, as they pull the other close.

"What now," the voice whispers in his ear. The voice full of want and anticipation.

He breaks free. Sits up and, finally, manages to remove his sweater. He feels him between his legs as he does, when he grabs the hem and pulls it over his head, his pulse resounding with a quickened beat. He almost joins him, almost.

"I… Victor, I, uh…" It's an unintentional sequence of nervousness, the way he licks his lips and lets a finger follow the tongue across the bottom one. As he does, he sees the blue eyes widen. Just for a second, before a smile takes over. Yes. He understands. They both do, but… words. Again, words. He can't even picture himself saying it.

He tries to, multiple times. Tries to steel himself and let the words follow on the exhale. They won't come out, only adding to his building embarrassment. "Victor… I…" He exhales, parts his lips. Looks for the support he knows his eyes will provide, as he taps them. His lips. Forcing himself not to look away, forcing himself to trust that support.

He barely makes eye contact before he is in his arms, feeling one hand on his naked back and the other on the nape of his neck. He feels him, against him and beneath him. That pulse is picking up, growing stronger with every second as his proposal sinks in.

"Yes. Yes, Yuuri. _God, yes._ " His voice burns his skin, just as much as the words affect the rest of him.

They gain a little distance from each other. A moment of stillness. Of ensurance. His thumb feels scorching on his lower lip. It's a longing touch, a hope for what's to come.

The touch is liberating, it happens quick. Getting off him, clawing at the waist of his trousers, him flexing his hips. They free him together, one leg at a time. He's quick to get back to his place on top of him. Feeling him underneath and between him as he reclines, getting lost in the way they're building each other up with touches made by hands and lips. It's easy to find the gear, and ultimately, the relentless speed that leaves them both heady.

"Can you," he breathes into his mouth, drunk on him, barely there in his mind but otherwise very present, "... just… um, your legs?" He gets no response, just a couple of fingers against his jaw as he gets invaded with his tongue, and a hand travelling down his back looking to breach the border between his skin and what's left of what he is wearing.

He lets him. Gasps as he touches the inside of his thigh, when he trails a finger slowly against his bare skin underneath those layers of fabric. Trying to see what he can do to push, to tease. All with the intention of making him walk along the edge with him.

"Nhg... no… Victor, no. Not like this… I want…" He frees himself from him. From that delicious warm slickness of his mouth and those needing hands. With a heart that beats hard from his excitement, from being close to him, feeling him. Knowing what's about to happen.

He backs away. Places himself on his knees on the floor next to the bed. He leans in, touches his leg that's closest, feeling his eyes on him. He can see him inhale, lean his head back. Close his eyes. He feels the exact same intoxication, he wants this too. For the both of them.

"Victor, come. Here, your legs…" He touches the back of his knee, begs him with the simplest touch to put them both over the edge.

He does, puts them both over the edge. With him in between them as he sits up. He tilts his head back with both his hands, slightly forceful. He's content with just looking at him, it seems. Seeing him and nothing else. Those blue eyes are beyond compare, filled with admiration and that indescribable thing that just makes him enrapt. Forever lost and totally content with it being so.

"Yuuri, it… it won't take long," he breathes.

"Lean back, um… maybe?"

"No, I want to see. Everything."

His response makes him almost gasp for air as that gut-clenching feeling attacks him. The one that is very familiar, the one that usually appears just before deliverance. He closes his eyes, in a futile attempt to try to calm himself. He can feel his hands disappear from the sides of his face, his breath gives him one small last caress before he opens his eyes.

"So, um…" He lifts his hands, places them on the thighs that frame him. Contemplating on how to continue. Desperately wanting to. He inches his hands closer, until he touches his hips. Letting his fingertips rest on the waistband of his underwear.

"Can I…" he asks, looking up at him with heated cheeks. He doesn't know if it's because of him feeling the tension between them, if it's because of everything they've said or what they've done up until that very moment, but when he sees the smile, the one that he only uses just for him… he feels that familiar burn behind his eyelids.

Of course, he's embarrassed. Of course, he becomes self-conscious. Of course, he fears that the moment is gone. The little laugh he hears and the hand that finds one of his tell him the opposite, and for that, he's thankful.

"Of course. _Of course_ you can."

Freeing him becomes a joint operation. He waits with brown eyes widened. Seemingly patient but with his mind totally blank and all those thoughts rushing through his body instead. He, with blue eyes and parted lips, takes the first step and pulls down what's still covering him. Just enough, to make him see. To coax him to make a move.

He moves one of his hands from the safety of his hip before he touches him. Feels him, before he pulls him out. Making sure to keep his eyes on his, to get the affirmation he needs. He is tense underneath his hands, rigid in anticipation. He feels himself being parched, no matter how many tries to wet his mouth and lips. So he stands up, making sure not to let him go, and wets his mouth with his.

He gets back on his knees and feels his hand on the back of his head.

"Is it okay? I just want to keep it there," he whispers. The thickness in his voice is pronounced, oozing of greed. Barely contained, despite its low volume.

He moves his free hand from his thigh and braids his fingers with his as he leans in to taste him.

* * *

It's not the same. Not at all like what he's been getting used to. Feeling him in this way, having him this close. It's a whole new understanding of intimacy. Of being trusted and trusting. And he feels special. Chosen. Thankful, for him being the way he is. Everything that he's not.

"... close…" His voice is barely audible, his hand is starting to dig into his hair.

He isn't prepared, it's not the same. The cues are unknown to him. He tastes him before he realises that he has plunged back to earth. Fighting for everything that makes him human. He can't keep himself propped up, he gives in. Trembles as he draws breath, his stomach heaving with effort.

He joins him, curls up next to him with his head on his chest. His life's rhythm pounding inside, growing more mellow and steady with every breath he takes. He feels at ease being next to him. He feels at home.

"Come."

He turns his head as meets narrow, blue eyes. Almost covered entirely by his light lashes. As he shifts to meet him, he feels his hand on the back of his head again. Asking him to come closer. To give him a little bit more. He feels his heart jump into his throat, but he can't say anything, let alone do anything, before his mouth is against his.

"Hm?" He sounds amused as they part. He wipes his chin with the sleeve of his shirt before he licks his lips and finishes his train of thought. "So that's what I taste like? And you? Care to indulge me?"


	5. Giving

Eight months suddenly seemed like nothing, and yet, a lifetime. Like nothing, because time was fleeting when together with him. Hard to hold on to, impossible to stop. Like a lifetime, because that's what he wanted for them. Needing them to experience the concept of forever and always.

As they walked in, hearing his footsteps and his friendly 'hello' behind him as he followed him inside, it came to him. He was insecure, restrained by doubts and malicious thoughts about what he could ever offer someone like him. Someone who had all and everything, someone being so different from himself. But… that had changed, he realised. In that very moment in time when he walked through those doors. This is what it was about, the small thing that was missing. This is what he wanted, without even knowing or realising it before. The answers to that restlessness inside. He felt it.

He managed to engage the clerk, the blonde behind the counter, with rambling words and a shaking hand. Pointing to his answers. Not even in his mind could he make it understandable, make himself find the proper words.

 _I've always wanted a lucky charm._

He watched as they were removed from underneath, being put on the surface if the glass. Yes. This was what he was missing. The answers. The proof he needed. It somehow clicked inside, strengthening that notion. He nodded, not daring to glance back across his shoulder. Not daring to see what _he_ was thinking. To _him_ , this could mean… something else? Maybe… What he wanted to say while looking into those blue eyes but just couldn't?

 _I-It's a lucky charm so that I can do my best in the Final!_

And seemingly, not even to himself. He felt his heart race. What did it mean, in truth? Standing with him that close behind, picking out golden implications? Symbols with a distinct meaning, the connotations undisputable?

 _It's also a thank you gift to Victor for all of his help._

The dissonance becomes overwhelming.

The small box got put in a blue paper bag. He never noticed the clerk's smile as he reached over to take it in his hands. He only saw his.

* * *

They enter in silence. Taken with the night's events. Not thinking twice about the obvious, that two hotelrooms have become one. That two beds are just for show. What they do think about is what the evening have meant. What they have done. What has been said.

"Victor?" He's had the question on the tip of his tongue for hours, not daring to let it go. Not daring to hear the actual words come out of his mouth. Dreading the answer. Yearning for it. But he has decided that he will try to let words work in his favor. If he just can get them out.

"Mhm?" He takes off his shoes without looking at him, continuing with his coat.

"I just, I mean, I was thinking. About what you said."

"What I said?" He meets him with his eyes, they linger upon his. He looks curious, with that little smile playing on his lips. His eyes sharing the same expression.

"Yes. At the café. In… front of the others." He swallows. Not being able to convince his tongue to do what he wants it to. He swallows again when he approaches after having tossed his coat aside on the bed. Shudders when his hands find his face, brushing his hair back.

"I said a lot of things." His eyes are slowly closing as he comes closer to claim his lips. "You'll have to be more specific."

He tastes of beer. Of hot wine. Although, those flavours are nothing compared to the one thing he savours more than anything else. The flavour of him. It's easy for him to get swept away. As soon as that familiar sensation of taste and smell comes together, as soon as he comes over his tongue and gets amplified through his nose. Filling him up until there's nothing else he can distinguish, nothing else he wants to distinguish.

He wriggles out of his coat, getting instantly rewarded as his hands find their way underneath his sweater. When his hands suddenly start to explore, determined with a reason, he lets him. Sates himself with the blatant appreciation that he expresses through all those mellow noises, all viva voce. His mind gets conditioned to hearing him, all those soft exclamations. All the oohs and aahs. The soft laughs and the heady sighs. He wants to hear him, he wants to hear his entire register of admirations, but he doesn't know how to bring it out of him. To make him get lost in him and nothing else. No one else, for as long as he draws breath.

Being nothing but hungry mouths, wayward hands and bodies longing for something more, they entwine. Doing just a fraction of what they secretly wanted ever since they did, said and felt all those things on the steps in front of the cathedral. But it's not enough. Nothing ever seems to be enough. He wants to let him know, he needs him to know everything, now that he's failing with words.

They end up on the bed that's closest. He feels the discarded coat underneath him, and its owner on top. He tries to get the coat out of the way but as soon as he reaches for it, his hands are being returned to where they were. Back to him, his back. That sway of his back that weakens him with every suggestion of muscles tensing and relaxing.

"Take off your sweater." Victor's voice is low, spoken against his neck. Leaving a shadow of heat behind as he sits up on top of him.

As he shifts underneath him to do what he's been asked, raising himself slightly off the bed, he hears the coat end up on the floor. His sweater meets the same fate, not earning as much as a second glance.

"So..." His voice lingers, making him sound him like a sovereign. Appearing like one, too. Relaxed on his throne made of flesh and bone. "About being specific," he continues, pulling his heavy gray sweater over his head. Alternately hiding and revealing himself before he appears with ruffled hair and a smile that takes his breath away.

"That's… I…" Seeing the golden promise on his finger glisten in the soft light makes him feel nervous. He had surprised him earlier, standing out in even more radiant colours, in that fantastic glow, when he said what he did. And now, he… wanted to know. If he really meant what he said. Because somewhere, deep inside, those words were what he desperately wanted to feel brave enough to use.

He reaches for him, puts his hand against his stomach. Feeling his skin, hot despite being bare. He decides to try, muster whatever courage he has. "I just wanted to know if you meant what you said." He feels affected by the words, how he managed to say too little, but hopefully just enough. The way he gets lightheaded. The way his pulse increases. The way he feels that vibration inside. The one only he can elicit.

He realises that he's been addressing his stomach, embarrassingly enough. He feels hesitant to raise his gaze, but he does. Slowly, with a slight trepidation. Fearing what expression he's going to be met by. Fearing what he'll say.

But that smile remains, and impossibly enough grows even warmer when their eyes meet. "Of course I did." He grabs him by the arm and pulls him up, enclosing him in his arms. Letting him in, into his light. Making every feeling, every sensation gain its own special colour.

And with that, all his worries dissipates.

* * *

It's a new experience he shares with him. The unbridled passion is still there, but not as acute. Instead, it gives. Gives room, allowing something else to manifest itself. It's stronger, he realises. Something that shakes his foundations, moves him down to his core. It's a totally different understanding. Of himself, of them and, naturally, of _him_.

If he's gotten lost before, lost in the need, the want and the yearning, he's suddenly found. It's like a new purpose reveals itself, a purpose of staying close, finding out more and more until there are no uncertainties left. And he wants to, he fiercely needs to. And he's ready not only to find out more, but to give. Give everything he possibly can in order to show his love. Not just the word blurted out on national TV, but the meaning behind it. It's fundamental definition that only can be expressed through something else, a connection that goes beyond words and actions.

As he feels him close, feels the body that have brought him indescribable pleasure against him, he comprehends it all. With every lingering kiss, every comforting touch, every reassuring moment their eyes meet, the realisation grows.

It becomes overwhelming, keeping it inside. Trying to incorporate that new piece of understanding, make it stick to his very being. His exhale becomes a tremble and he tries hard not to let him see, but it happens anyway. Drops of emotions, containing everything he's ever felt, burst their way out. Ending up everywhere they shouldn't. He holds on to him, like they are the last known bastions of everything that's true. And in a way, they are. At least to each other.

"Hey…"

He feels the embrace grow tighter. So tight that it's almost impossible to quake. But he does, still. On the inside. He tries to find something that will make him steady. Tries to hold on, dig his fingers into his back. Tries to occupy himself with the feeling on his hair between his fingers. Tries to seek the calm in the warmth against him. But he knows, with every breath, every heartbeat, everything that is him, that it won't be enough.

It becomes a thought at first. A thought that evolves into him mouthing it, silently. Without words. It grows into an inaudible whisper, but he feels the words engage his mouth. It evolves into something louder, distorted by what the words make him feel.

"What? I can't hear you, love."

It's the final push. The final meeting where he seeks him out and finds him where he is. Where he understands that they are one. They want the same. They feel the same. All of a sudden, words aren't as insurmountable to taste as before. Not as crippling to utter. Not as daunting to attach feelings to.

He speaks into his neck. "... love you." It becomes his salvation, his deliverance. He wants him to to understand. He wants him to see, feel, hear. Everything that he has to say. The three words that he finally have understood himself. He claws off his glasses before he gains some space, only to close it again by resting his forehead against his. "Victor, I love you!"

He never thought someone like him ever would react to something like that. Thinking that he'd probably heard it numerous times. Fantasising that he was a person who could pick and choose whoever he wanted and most probably did. But he did react. With misty blue eyes that told him that he might have heard the words being uttered before, but not like this, not with the purpose of conveying unconditional love. And now, he'd picked him, chosen him.

"You'll never know what you've just given me," he whispers. With blue eyes vibrating but trying to remain still.

"The same as you've given me. But I want to… I want to give you more," he breathes with his lips against his.

He blinks in disbelief. The blue eyes can't stay still. "What… what do you have in mind?"

He leans back, takes him with him as he reclines. Holds on to that back as he starts touching the mattress, feeling his muscles play underneath his skin. He realises that he wants them to, but in a slightly different context. He wants to feel him move, being underneath his hands. Against him.

With that understanding, he answers. "Anything. Everything."


	6. Taking

_**Yuuri Katsuki is now emancipated. Thank you for reading :)**_

* * *

They made a decision together. A decision that opened up for new things to happen, a decision that allowed for new experiences to make them grow. A decision that left them both strengthened, wanting more. Wanting all and everything. It feels comfortable now, looking back. Thinking about it all with a gained perspective. How he'd been offered a hand, a heart, a new life. And how he'd embraced it all with not even a second's hesitation.

It's with a fuzzy mind he recalls this, how he'd taken a chance. Taken a leap. Taken time. Together with him. It's with a beating heart and wandering hands he forgets, how it was before. When he'd been searching for context. Searching for peace of mind. Searching for something he had no words for. Now, all of that have changed.

They say that time is a cruel mistress. That she takes everything thought to be lasting and eternal. That she commands and conquers, that she rips and tears and leaves nothing behind. But to him, she has been good. Loving. Giving more than anything else. Offering event upon event, adventure upon adventure, exploit upon exploit. The reason he fares well with her, the reason he's grown fond of her, is that she offers him all of that when he's together with him. And he takes everything handed to him, holds on to it with determined fingers. Pulling it close in embrace upon embrace, keeping it wrapped up against him in a heated need.

And now, he's being offered something new. They aren't home, they haven't been for some time ever since one ring had to make room for a second one. When words were finally spoken to answer a long-sought question, accept a dreamed-about offer. When a kiss signed and sealed all of that they carried inside themselves before, only whispered and thought about in their hopes and dreams. Being somewhere else than home both opens up and confines. The curiousness spills over, but the courage is nowhere to be seen. It's like wanting to dip your feet, but still stay perfectly dry when seeing a pool's velvety surface. Wanting to, but not knowing what will happen.

It's with a fuzzy mind he holds on to him when they get back, after a night of celebration. It's in this distorted reality, where everything feels so easy, where everything is about instant gratification, where they could be the last people on earth, he thinks about the word. _Honeymoon._ It's like it's a word made for _him_ , his moon made out of silver and blue, the one caressing his neck, filling him up with sweet nothings and delivering colour to his monochrome.

"Oops! I got you." His voice cuts through the silence as they stumble through the door, quick to brace himself with a hand against the wall and catch him with an arm around his waist. "Too much to drink, Yuuri?"

"A… liddel, I fink." His tongue can't handle the small but necessary movements to bring out perfectly coherent words, like it tries too much but fails anyway. In this reality, it doesn't matter. He can't even think the thought of being self-conscious, of feeling the slightest smidge of embarrassment.

"Here, let me. Hold on, put your hand on my shoulder."

He think he hears him laugh a little, but he does what he's told. He feels his balance shift precariously when his support squats, starts to untie his shoes and helps him out of them.

"Sankyuu, Bi… Ui…" He scoffs, annoyed with the tongue-twister that is his name. It never comes out right when he's like this. When an otherwise hard to find confidence takes over with ease and soothes him and makes everything seem perfect and uncomplicated. Everything except the pronunciation of his name.

"Oh, love…" He stands up, presses himself against him. Almost forcefully places his arms around his neck. He smells of alcohol too, but strangely enough, he always seem to be in control. Knowing what to say and do. "Bed? Seems like you could use some sleep."

He nods. As always, he's being perfectly rational. Always making sense.

On billowy legs, he staggers to the bed and lets himself fall. Headlong with his face touching all the fluffy softness before the rest of his body as it makes impact. The way his glasses digs in at the root of his nose doesn't bother him the slightest.

"Can you take off your clothes?"

"No." He speaks loudly into the duvet. "Yew help. I fink I can't moof eniemour."

He feels hands on him, warm and gentle hands that guide him around on his back. Without a word, those hands start to loosen his tie, unbutton his shirt.

"Sit up for me. Give me your hand."

He feels like he should win a prize for being so pliant, giving his hand to him, making it possible for him to sit up. Yes, that was quite a feat. A celebration in its own right. The thought disappears quickly when he feels his shirt being removed, his hands getting pulled through the cuffs, the air of the room making his skin react and covered with bumps. He reclines with a shudder.

"You're not done, Yuuri." He leans in, delivers a kiss on his exposed stomach and begins to unbutton his trousers. "Up a bit so I can take them off… good boy."

He barely feels them come off, skimmed off of him with loving hands. Nor does he pay any attention to being covered yet again, feeling his entire body enveloped in a sleep-inducing warmth.

 **-xoxo-**

When he wakes, occupied with eyes trying to adjust and limbs trying to shake their rigidity, he barely notices it at first. The hint of a touch, along his back. He can't tell what made it, if it's by fingers or lips or something else, but he listens to the touch. Intently.

"I woke you up?" The question sounds more like a statement somehow. Somewhat challenging, somewhat like a dare.

He's still slightly unsteady as he turns to his side to face him, his mind's still slightly muddled and it's noticeable by the way the bed is rolling underneath him, he's still feeling some of that invigorating intoxication from before. That makes him attentive, makes him drawn to him. Like a moth to a flame. His hands feel it to, the pull towards him. One finds his hair, now dullish gray in the colour of the night, the other finds the hand that probably made him come out of his slumber.

"No. No you didn't." He's happy that his tongue and his brain have found some of that mutual participation he sought a few hours ago, and decides to put them through the ultimate test. "Victor," he smiles hearing his name come out right, "can't you sleep?"

Those normally blue eyes are flattering his broad smile by doing exactly the opposite as his mouth, narrowing but remaining equally as playful as his lips. "Still haven't tried."

They look at each other, hands finding a strand of hair to push back, a lip to touch, an eyelid to caress. Many nights have been spent like this, in quiet adoration. Of remembering almost invisible details, feeling them, too. Making sure that everything about the other gets etched in, stuck on retinas and honoured by fingertips.

"Two more nights, and then..." He says it with a sigh, feeling the scent of him as he comes closer. That smell is imprinted on him now, it carries the meaning of countless of things. Everything between calm and turbulence, friendship and passion, monochrome and colour. One thing that smell always does to him is to invoke the image of chasing the moon, or at least its reflection, on a mirror-like pool. One thing that smell always does to him is making him not only wanting to dip his feet but more. So much more. All of this, just by feeling him coming closer.

"Mhm." His lips are brushing against his, those steel coloured eyes slowly closing. His hands are travelling immediately across his skin. Finding spots that are his and his alone. Places only he has access to without even asking. "And then?"

That's the question. And then? When they're home, back into their routines and the quiet comfort of everyday life, what happens then? What happens when slow mornings governed by the sun are to be replaced by early mornings standing on ice? When hot nights and soothing promises are to be replaced by frustration and aching bodies, brought on by something not even as remotely pleasant?

He doesn't answer the question being mirrored back to him. He doesn't want to. All he wants is to be here, actively participating in the now, together with him. Remain in the soft and sweet and uncomplicated.

All of that is exchanged in a matter of seconds. When the kiss ends and the moth has found the coveted light. When what he finds himself in becomes hard, needy and intricate instead. Together they act as fuel and flame. If you were to take out one component, the other simmers down. But they're feeding each other, wanting the heat. Seeking pleasure upon pleasure.

It is always he who takes command. The moon is like that, it has a trajectory no one can influence. It's a definite, something untouchable. If it suddenly wasn't doing what it has been since the beginning of remembrance, things would be considered alarming. That's why the rays of the moon, filtered down to the deliberate touches and the exhales smelling slightly of alcohol against open lips are welcomed. Sought-after.

He has a vague memory from earlier, when his clothes were removed, caressed off of him. When the lone garment he's still wearing meets the same fate, he is helpful. Flexes his hips and rewards him thoroughly with fingers digging into his shoulders and a mouth egging him on.

"Oh-hoh," he gets in response. A coo, oozing of appreciation. "I thought you were sleepy but… look at you."

His hands are on him, trying to take what they can. The control, hold of him, the glorious initiative. They are focused on rousing him, feeling their way across his body. Intently heading lower. He allows them to, this is something he wants to be included in the question that was mirrored before. The 'and then' should be full of nothing but this.

When he lets him go, he doesn't sigh. He doesn't clamber on to keep him close so that he can bask in his light. He wants him to follow the path already found, the one that is a constant in moments like this. Hearing the cap snap off with a click, does that to him. As the slick coolness being liberally caressed on him, inside him, he hisses through clenched teeth. Thinking highly of the constant, the definite. What it does, what it makes him feel.

But tonight, the moon imbibes a follower, a worshipper, an archpriest with something else. It is the understanding that it finally is time. Time to catch it. To take it and be the first to conquer it. To pull it down from the sky, down into the pool where it can be touched and harnessed. And to do that, he's ready to go below the surface.

"No." He hears his voice being used, but it's as if it is spoken out loud by someone else. Someone more daring. He wants to be shown the way he realises, and now the embarrassment sprouts.

" _No_?" His voice sounds amused. Not understanding what the two letter word really means.

"I… I want to… do… like you do…" _To me. But to you._

Time stopped, it must have. It's not possible going without air for so long, to dive beneath with the sole intention of catching something as grand. It's not possible to be as still if not frozen in time.

He finally moves. Away, strangely enough. As he shifts, light from the window brings out some the silver, brings out some of the blue. "You _really_ want to?"

He can't do anything else than nod, feeling the heat of his cheeks spread with an alarming pace. Making himself ready to cover his face with his elbow. He doesn't need to, since the moon is falling into his arms. Ready to be tethered.

 **-xoxo-**

He is shown the way. With soft directives spoken into his ear. With searing hands guiding his, making it possible. He feels awkward, doing the same things that previously have been done to him. Somehow, he never thought of it to be an alternative. But he does, as he wades out and prepares himself to reel in.

Seeing the curve of his back, the slight bend of his spine as he looks back at him over his shoulder, sucks the air out of him. Seeing how his head being his lowest point, he understands that it's actually happening. He is going to. And he, in return, allows him to.

"So, I just… do I… um…" He is afraid to touch him. To feel his hips, to hold on to his thighs, to caress his back. This is not what usually happens, this is new. He wants to, needs to, but he's afraid. Afraid of losing himself in depths unknown.

"Just… do it. Just go slow, I want to feel you. Fill me."

His words are supposed to ingest him with the courage needed, he understands that, but he can't believe what is happening. Being behind him, pulsating, leaking with yearning, being absolutely ravenous. Not daring to make a move.

"Yuuri, please…" His eyes are finding his in a fraction of a second.

When those blue eyes are begging, no, needing more than his voice conveys, he makes it so. He guides himself, pushes in. Partially turned on, partially horrified by the sound he brings out of him.

"Victor, I'm sorry! I… I…"

"No, continue. More, love. Give me... more."

He finds a slow rhythm, eyes locked on the back of the head dressed in silver. Trying hard not to fall, trying hard not to succumb.

"Love, let me… let me see your face!"

The tangle consisting of limbs and bodies becomes a fact as they try to meet each other, as they shift and face each other. Being stuck together not only by sweat and greedy hands.

"It… it won't hurt?" His eyes are locked on his, not daring to look anywhere else. Not daring to see how sprawled out he is underneath him. How he accepts him and all of him. He can see his bent knees being parallel with his face from the corners of his eyes, he can almost feel them touch his cheeks. He could, in theory, kiss the insides of those knees. They're there, so close, so telling. He can't stop the small whimper from leaving his lips. He can't take the image that is bombarding him. That he's doing this to _him._

"Oh, love… It's good… this… is amazing. Go. Go on."

They find something mutual, something they both can agree to. Not caring if it's a rhythm, a pace, a struggle or a claim. They want it to continue, loving the new, the uncharted, the adventure. It stops being serious, it becomes jovial as they grow confident in their new roles.

"You look amazing," he pants as he pulls him in. Grey eyes with the tiniest speck of blue that are locked on his, not looking away. Hands cupping his face, guiding him to where he wants him to be. "Kiss me when you come."

He doesn't know what pushes him over the edge. If it's his words, the sensation of being enveloped tightly, the mouth that clambers on to his, the sound of their continuous collisions as flesh is meeting flesh, but he quakes and falls. Crying into his mouth as he does. Feeling ripple upon ripple take over him until he can't anymore.

"Yuuri… and then?" His voice is like velvet, when it all becomes still. His hands brushing away black and sweaty strands from his face as he remains collapsed on top of him. Trying to find some coherence.

 _...and then?_ He knows the answer to his question. He finally took the moon.

 **-the end-**


End file.
